


Trinkets

by throwntotheair (eloquentelegance)



Series: the friends theme song [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquentelegance/pseuds/throwntotheair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Headcanon:  Damian keeps a chest in his room filled with things that people have given him. He has candy wrappers from the sweets people have given him, ticket stubs from the times people have taken him to movies. He has every single letter that someone has sent him. Alfred helped make him a scrapbook of all the pictures he’s taken of people, and pictures that have been sent to him. He keeps little trinkets forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trinkets

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to insanityrunsinthefamily for the inspiration

His grandchildren tended to be... rather disorganized. And that was certainly putting it lightly. The understatement of the year, one could say, perhaps the decade. Stepping into any of his grandchildren’s rooms is a hazardous task, yes, quite the dangerous affair. And though he loves each and every one of them dearly, if he steps on another wayward charger or slips on a forgotten batarang one more time - he’ll throw the biggest damned fit this house has ever seen. Considering he lives with the Batman himself, it certainly would be quite the feat.

His saving grace were Jason and Damian, bless their neat, little hearts. He never feared any sort of accident entering their rooms, barring, of course, Damain’s attempts at flustering him. The boy seemed to take issue with his implacable, British veneer. Damian tried often to surprise him or disturb him - swinging from the ceiling or making grisly threats, and the like. But Alfred did not raise three boys and Cassandra, not to mention Bruce himself, to be put off by a few cheap tricks.

However, if Alfred was to be honest with himself, he was a touch... concerned. It wasn’t because of something Damian actively did. It was simply... All of his grandchildren have rooms filled to bursting, even Jason. They collect a myriad of things: knick knacks, souvenirs, toys, gadgets. And Alfred despairs of it all, yes, but in a way, their things - their little trinkets - were signs of life. It tells Alfred that here lives Dick with his circus memorabilia and his stuffed elephant or here lives Tim with his errant skateboard and empty candy wrappers. He only wished they were like Jason and _put their things away_ , but never would he begrudge them their things.

Damian, although equally as neat and organized as Jason, Alfred finds he cannot celebrate the tidiness of Damian’s room. There’s no mess to trip over, yes, but because there’s nothing to make a mess of. The boy has his art supplies and his violin, and little else to fill the space. His room, in short, lacked a personal touch. Alfred walked in and the room looked exactly as it had when Damian first arrived. There was little to show that here lived a boy of ten. There was little to show a boy lived here at all. And it concerned Alfred. It concerned him exceedingly.

Yet, as of late, he had been noticing a few, small things. Indeed, it was all quite small and tucked away, like shy, little secrets peeking from the windowsill or from the bookshelves. There was a pebble of a startling copper color. It sparkled prettily in the sunlight. There was a pair of 20 sided die. It looked well-used with the corners dulled. These secrets grew in number, and though arranged in straight rows, each one bore little similarity with the next. 

There was a bird skull, finely aged, sitting next to a very misshapen ceramic cup. Then there was a tiny figurine of a bearded fellow, wielding a hammer, by a dog-eared, well-worn copy of Othello. A  broken knife beside a chewed up tennis ball. A bottle of neon nail polish close to a chipped shirt button.

Photos started to appear. At first, it laid scattered on the desk, as if someone was confused by its very existence and didn’t know what to do with it. But soon after, Alfred found the photos tucked between book pages or taped to the mirror, and one string of photo booth snapshots were carefully slipped into an overly-glittered, messily-glued, obviously handmade picture frame. This one sat in a place of honor on Damian’s bedside table, to be the first thing he sees when he wakes and the last thing he sees when he falls asleep.

Alfred gently picks up the frame, intending to dust the surface beneath it, when he finds a drawing slipped behind the photo booth snapshot. The drawing is of a rather impressive group, all garbed in medieval clothing and shining armor. But despite the costumes, Alfred recognizes each one from their precisely rendered faces - all smiling, with their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. It looks like the happy ending to a particularly epic quest. And in the center, surrounded on all sides by his friends, Damian stands with his chin held high. There is triumph in his expression but also joy and sincere, unbridled warmth. It looks almost like gratitude, and relief.

A drop falls onto the frame and Alfred hastily wipes away his tears. It would not do to damage the drawing. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if he did. Setting the frame down, Alfred huffs out a low chuckle. It appears Master Damian did succeed in flustering this old soul. He should count himself fortunate that the young man wasn’t around to see.


End file.
